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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
I don't even know.

Submitted: May 14, 2013

A A A | A A A

Submitted: May 14, 2013



Sunday. God's day. Never going back there. Saturday, I'll be dead. Every Sunday, it somehow seems to get worse. Started as a minor inconvenience. Slowly becoming worse to the point of pure pain. Too much pain on God's day.

Monday. What a relief. Chewin' on a piece of grass, walkin' down the road. Last time I'll get to do this. Hitchhike forty miles north, sit in the diner for an hour and a half, watching all walks of life eat their lives away. Can't take it anymore, I need to get the fuck out. I'm gonna lose my shit. Everything black.

Tuesday. Getting worse again, need to pack. Blackout.

Wednesday. Hitchhike in a truck full of Mexicans, get close to the border. Have to get the fuck out, getting worse. Mexican slips me an unknown pill, knock it back with a belt of mezcal. Off the truck, stumble and collapse under the roof of a shit shack. Or were they Guatemalan? Everything black again.

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